Jihad

CHAPTER 65

Besides holding his post as National Security Advisor, George Hadash had served in the U.S. Army as a young man and received both the Purple Heart and Silver Star, making him eligible for burial at Arlington National Cemetery. But his daughter Irena held firm on that issue; her father had always wanted to be buried next to his brother, who had been killed in Vietnam and was interred with other family members at a cemetery in suburban Virginia.

The ceremony was a simple one, with family and close friends only. But as the President of the United States was among Hadash’s closest friends, there was no way to make it small, or truly private. The TV people kept a somewhat respectful distance from the gravesite, but their presence hung like a shadow in the distance.

“He was the pragmatist, I was the optimist,” said the president, speaking without notes in front of the open grave. “He was the teacher. I the student.”

Marcke’s modesty touched Rubens, as did his obvious grief; the president looked as pale and drawn as Irena. When he ended his eulogy by simply looking down at the casket and saying, “I’m going to miss you, George,” even Rubens felt tears slip from his eyes.

The minister read from the 23rd Psalm, selected by Irena with Rubens’ help. Then one by one they threw fistfuls of dirt in the grave — Irena, her daughter, the president, Rubens, the others.

And then it was over.

Rubens watched as President Marcke consoled Irena and her daughter one last time. When the president began walking toward his limo, Rubens went over to her. He had planned to give Irena and her daughter a ride back to their condominium, where she would host a few family members for a light breakfast. He couldn’t stay himself.

His phone began to vibrate just as he reached her. He stepped discreetly to the side, activating the phone.

“Red Lion plans to come to the U.S.,” Marie Telach told him.

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. He just checked in for a flight to New York with a connection at Paris.”

Rubens clicked off the phone. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he told Irena. Then he started down the hill toward the president’s limo. Marcke was standing next to the open door with a group of aides, including Bing.

“Mr. President,” said Rubens as Marcke started to get in the car.

“What’s up, Billy?”

“We should talk — perhaps in private.”

Marcke slid into the car. Rubens followed.

“Red Lion — Asad bin Taysr, al-Qaeda’s number three — he’s coming to the U.S. We can arrest him here if you want. You’d spoken of wanting to put a top leader of the organization on trial, if possible.”

Marcke said nothing. Rubens guessed he was considering the political ramifications; putting a terrorist on trial was full of pitfalls and could easily backfire.

“We’re still not sure what he’s planning,” added Rubens. “I — we unraveled the plot in Germany as I told you earlier, but obviously there’s something here.”

“I want him, Billy. I want to put him on trial and show the world what slimes we’re dealing with. Can you get him?”

“Yes, sir. First, though—”

“First find out what he’s up to, absolutely. You do that. Then we nail him for it. You do it. Whatever it takes. I want that son of a bitch.”

There was so much emotion on Marcke’s face that Rubens felt his own flush. “I’ll get him. I will.”

As Rubens reached for the door, the president grabbed him by the shoulder. “George Hadash was a great man. I owe him a lot.”

“I do, too,” managed Rubens, nodding as the president released him.

By the time Rubens reached the Art Room, Telach had gotten one of the CIA backup people to the airport and over to the gate area. The flight was overbooked; the Art Room computer wizards were able to change the coding on both tickets to ensure that the men would not be bumped, making it appear that they had not only checked in several hours before anyone else, but that they had both paid the airline’s full fare.

“Where are Lia and Dean?” Rubens asked Telach as she pointed out Asad’s location on the screen.

“Lia is tracking the Saudis. There’s no way she can get there in time. Dean’s in the airport, but Asad just saw him. I don’t want to risk putting him on the same flight.”

“We’ll need someone in Paris — a full team in case he gets off there.”

“He checked his bag. If he doesn’t get on the flight, it’ll set off all sorts of alarms.”

“I find it interesting, Ms. Telach, that someone like you who regularly finds ways around security systems does not appreciate that someone else might as well.”

“I did plan on having someone there,” she said defensively. “Should I alert the French interior ministry?”

“The French will merely confuse things. Where is Mr. Karr? ”

“He’s wrapping up in Germany.”

“Have him proceed to the airport.”

Rubens turned to go.

“Mr. Rubens, wait,” said Telach quickly. “We think there may be some sort of plot involving the Taksim area of Istanbul. Asad’s bodyguard mentioned it just outside the airport. We think they’re going to strike around noon.”